


Lotus

by koanju (verstehen)



Series: Greek Myths Series [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verstehen/pseuds/koanju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is rarely cruel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lotus

She had grown up in the light, in the warmth and care of the sun and flowers, but she was truly beginning to love the dark. She missed the feel of wet grass tickling her feet as she walked, face upraised, in the morning to find wreathes and garlands for herself. In its place, she had replaced that affection with the feeling of the breeze the souls made as they populated their little heavens and the rich inviting smell of the Styx as she strolled through the Elysian Fields.

She was the Queen of the Dead and it was beneath her to mourn her past. Mourning was for the living. Here, the dead came to rest.

But she still, in her stomach, felt of the seeds she had tasted roiling and settling. It made her long for the spring to come, for her mother to come and sweep her away from this life of cold, calm judgment, this life of wilting. She longed for blooming again, renewal, only her mother could bring.

“My love?” She hadn’t even heard her husband approach, silently as always, until she turned and her eyes were drawn to his hands. They were both stretched out to her in offering. In his left hand, he held a blooming white lotus flower, its petals folding over and around the curves of his fingers and palm. If it still lived here, in the realm of death, he had blessed it with his breath and forever preserving the bloom. In his right hand, he held the same sweet fruit that had condemned her to this life and this husband who coveted her light and life so much he hid her from the very things that made her flush with both. “You are troubled.”

“It was cruel,” she told him, pushing the pomegranate away. She only touched his wrist, the barest amount of friction with her fingertips she could stand, before pulling back. The lotus flower she took, letting her fingers stroke the petals.

“Death is rarely cruel, my love,” he said, reaching over and running his fingers through her long hair. She flinched away from the pale cool fingers. “It is rarely cruel because it is life’s only certainty.”

“You punished that boy for making you feel.” She turned away from him completely, cradling the precious blossom in her hands.

His hands rested on her waist, thumbs rubbing in circles along the light fabric of her wrap. “No. Orpheus could have saved his wife if he had been resolute. It was no phantom following him.” He gave a quiet sigh against her hair. “Defying death should never be easy, my love. It upsets the order of things. Orpheus failed to remember that. He failed to trust the words of a god. For that — his own choices — he is being punished.”

“No, _my love_,” she disputed. For him, it was a term of endearment. For her, it was a term of loathing. A term of disrespect. He never seemed to care so long as the words were being said. “He is being punished for making you feel. It clouds your precious judgment.”

His fingers pulled her hair away from her neck. His lips pressed against where her pulse should be.

“He is not you, my love.”


End file.
